


The Lovesick

by OdetteBerry



Series: The Lovesick [1]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), Dylan and Cole Sprouse, JacksGap, Jonas Brothers, One Direction (Band), Taylor Swift - Fandom
Genre: Dark Harry sometimes, Harry is a frog prince, Multi, New York City
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:37:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4743212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OdetteBerry/pseuds/OdetteBerry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>/Rosie Young/ was meant for a life outside of the spotlight but that was before – before Nashville shattered her heart, before she lost herself, and before she met and fell in love with fellow star-crossed wonderer /Harry Styles/</p><p>To everyone who surrounds Rosie Young, she’s an unpredictable, unconventional, ingenious masterpiece. But to Rosie Young, she's a wreck – a basket case of glass shards and suppressed dark memories. So when she winds up in the arms of the impossibly famous and even more lovely Harry Styles, no one believes it. But that’s probably just because One Direction's management team has been fighting hard to keep them under wraps.</p><p>Rumors, lights, fights. His world is a twisted maze; but little does he know, the reason why she’s reluctant to be in it is because it’s nowhere near as twisted as her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lovesick

**Author's Note:**

> Copyright © 2015 by OdetteBerry
> 
> All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of OdetteBerry.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Public personages both living and dead may appear in the story under their right names. Scenes and dialogue involving them with fictitious characters are of course invented. Any other usage of real people's names is coincidental. Any resemblance of the imaginary characters to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
> 
> HOPE YOU ENJOY X

**_– PREFACE –_ **

_Rosie Young  
_ _New York City_

I watched Dallas dry swallow two aspirin before sprawling out into her morning stretches. Why she insisted on taking that fourth tequila shot the night before her Philosophy of Politics exam was beyond me, considering how much of a lightweight she is. I moved to our shared kitchen and found Nollee simultaneously chugging a glass of water and filling her Camelbak to its brim. They were gonna ace it. They always do, because my friends are superhuman freaks.

I grabbed my backpack and we began moving east toward NYU. "Cole wants to try this new restaurant in East Village tonight," Dallas chimed up, pulling on a pair of sunglasses.

"What's even new," Nollee huffed. Cole, the resident "City Explorer" of the group, was always into trying new places in the hopes of finding the next hole-in-the-wall treasure. If it weren't for him, we wouldn't have our usual breakfast stop (or Thursday night, pre-exam tequila bar for that matter).

We swung open the door to Momo's Pancake Batter shop and stood in line for our usual coffee orders. The place buzzed about with the steady hum of nervous college students cramming for their exams.

"What's it called?" I asked, eyeing a girl's coffee and syrup stained flashcards.

"This Dog Serg or something. I don't know. It's supposed to have the best spinach dip in all of Manhattan," Dallas answered.

"Whoa, that's an ambitious claim."

She shrugged. "If Cole is wrong about this, I will never forgive him."

Before I could respond, a loud, collective gasp occurred in the far corner by the window. A group of girls dropped their flashcards and coffee cups to press their faces against the glass and peer out at a figure walking steadily by.

"What's happening? Is there a Jonas brother or something?" I heard myself ask no one in particular. Before I could put my coffee order in, the shop erupted into fits of, "That's him! Oh my god! That's Harry Styles!" and other slight variations of that. The name didn't really ring a bell for me, so I just carried on and ordered my 12 oz. with creme and sugar.

I only tell this story because it reflects how clueless I was.

 

_**– CHAPTER ONE –** _

_Rosie Young  
_ _New York City_

Two weeks before graduation, I realized that if my degree turned out to be useless, I was at least a master at bullshitting.

"Rosie," Professor Kass boomed, snapping me out of my daze. I guess I was doing that thing where I "stare off into the wonders of the great perhaps" again, or so he calls it. "What is your input?" He crossed his arms and did that sort of nightmarish contortion where his brow bone looms over his deep set eyes and his thin lips perch out like a crow's beak.

 _Shit._  I did my best to look calm and not in the least bit guilty. If I was going to pull this off, I had to reassess the only two things that I knew: 1. That I had  _abso-fucking-lutely_  no idea what was said two seconds before, and that 2. today's topic of discussion was idolism. I think.

"Idolism," I started out with great pseudo-confidence, "is a very unnatural concept." Professor Kass squinted his eyes and I could see that little ticking timer in his head. Like rising dough, my words were cooking in his mind. I continued, "Admiration, of course, is very natural. It's what helps us choose our leaders, and, in the primal sense, how we survive in the wild. But blind admiration is a relatively new concept. The need to blindly put trust - and thus admiration - into someone whom we've never met began with the birth of mass communication. We only know who to admire because we've been told to. Otherwise, we wouldn't know they exist."

It took some time for it to sink in, but Professor Kass nodded, and I knew I was off the hook. I was about to lean back and slip back into my "wonders of the great perhaps" when a voice emerged from the back. "I'd have to disagree," it began. "Blind admiration is not a  _relatively new concept_. As long as the idea of gods, royal courts and mass leaders have been in existence, we've always had idolism. It may not be something that we're innately born with, but it's an adaptable trait that dates back to our very first ancestors." Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to Cole Sprouse. I turned around to look at him. Cole, a fellow Anthropology major with the inability to  _not voice his opinion ever,_ but a close friend nonetheless, loved to argue. And fortunately for him, so did I.

I retaliated: "To strengthen your rebuttal, you should focus on my core argument rather than whether or not idolism is something new. Do you agree that idolism is an unnatural concept?"

Cole gave me a smug grin. He was probably the only other person than my myself who enjoyed arguing about  _how_  to argue. "Of course," he said. "The idea of worship stems from the birth of society."

Professor Kass joined in, "It's interesting how you used the word  _worship_."

"Well, idolism is closely linked to religion. Idolism  _is_  worship," Cole said with a certain tone of residency. He of all people in this class should know. Professor Kass even pointed it out: "Why don't you share with us your insights as an idol?"

"No," Cole said, shaking his head and leaning back in his seat. "I pulled a Shia. I'm not famous anymore." It may be hard to believe, seeing as he's sat here with a Five Star notebook and a purple NYU water bottle on his desk, that just five years ago Cole and his twin brother Dylan were the stars of one of the nation's top rated TV shows. A couple Jimmy Fallon appearances, a number of red carpets and an armful of Kids Choice Awards later, they both ditched the Hollywood scene in the pursuit of a college education. I watched as the majority of the class leaned in from the back of their seats to hear what he had to say. He may not have an active acting career at the moment, but Cole was definitely still famous – still  _idolized._

"Bullshit," I mumbled, then cut my eyes at Professor Kass. "Sorry," I said, but he let it pass. Anything for the sake of debate, right?

"Whoa there," Cole shot back and then resolved when he realized I was right. "Okay. Yeah, fame is weird. It changes people. Some of the most humble people can turn into materialistic savages after their first paparazzi experience. And speaking of paparazzi, fame is an incredibly invasive concept."

"Yeah, but," a thin voice from the front spiked up. It took me a moment but I realized that it was Kate, a second-year with a penchant for playing devil's advocate in  _every_  debate. "Don't you enjoy it? Isn't it, like, flattering? At all?"

"No, it's mostly shitty," Cole deadpanned. The class laughed. He shook his dusty blonde hair and then crossed his arms over his chest. I knew this stance – he was loving this, as ironic as it was.

I chimed in, "It's a privacy issue more than anything. Like you said, invasive. There's a thin line between admiration and pandemonium. Take this morning for example. There was a celebrity sighting -"

"Harry Styles!" a voice spiked.

"- Right. And it was insane. I mean, the whole coffee shop I was in crammed itself into one corner just to look at him. I think living that kind of life, where you can't even walk down the street without being gawked at like a zoo animal, would be miserable."

"Wait, Harry Styles was on campus?" another voice squeaked.  _Exhibit A_. I was about to elaborate more, but then Professor Kass slapped his wrist and said we were out of time. As I packed up my books, Kate and a couple others formed a misshapen rhombus and gushed about where the celebrity sighting happened, who saw him and where his possible whereabouts were.

I looked up at Cole who was waiting by my desk. It's funny because freshman year, he was the topic of such discussion.

_Cole was in line for Starbucks, did you see him?  
_ _Yeah, I also stalk him into the Gallatin School on Tuesday/Thursdays.  
_ _I wonder what his coffee order is.  
_ _I wonder what is his ideal girl is._

By senior year, the hype had died down. Now they just wonder where he is on Friday nights and why he argues so much.

"Kass really loves to ride your ass," Cole said as we made our way out of the classroom and down the stairs.

"Can we not use that metaphor with him?" I grimaced.

"Sorry. But you need to keep your attention span in check before he depletes your participation grade fully. What does he even mean by  _the wonders of the great perhaps_? Your dreams?"

"Maybe he means something bleak. Like that I stare my life away.  _I go to seek a great perhaps_  were François Rabelais's last words before he died."

"In which Professor Kass is one sick man."

"He must be if he rides my ass."

When we reached the bottom and exited out onto the city sidewalk, Cole started outlining tonight's plans with the rest of our friend group to try out this new "neo-Mediterranean" restaurant in SoHo. "It's called Dog Serg, and if we're lucky enough, the dog will actually make an appearance," he trailed on, but I was only half listening, because through the thick mass of people crowding the pavement, Finn emerged.

"Hey!" Finn called out, smiling. Finn Harding - America's dream boy and NYU's prime Urban Design and Architecture major with the brightest green eyes you'd probably ever find in North America - wore a denim chambray shirt, dark jeans and his trusty, black North Face backpack. He embodied the ultimate hot-English-schoolboy-turned-U.S.-American look effortlessly. If that look so exists.

"Finnegan," I said as he wrapped his arms around me. Cole, I noticed, stopped talking.

"Where are you two coming from?" Finn asked.

"Topics in Metaphysics and Epistemology with Kass," Cole jumped in.

"That sounds grueling," Finn joked, running his hand through his brown hair.

"Only physically," Cole exhaled.

"Cole prefers to exercise  _mentally_ ," I said, rolling my eyes.

A group of hurrying students pushed past us, splitting our group into thirds. It was Cole and me and then Finn on the other end of the sidewalk. I watched as Finn patiently waited, moving out of the way a couple times to let the crowd through before catching up with us. I had slowed down by then, but Cole continued to walk at his usual pace: fast - for reasons I didn't feel like asking about. When Finn caught up, I walked with him.

"Hey, you know what's happening in about thirty hours?" he bumped into me playfully. "Your induction into the  _Young Musicians Group_." He bumped into me again.

I felt my lips pull into a smile. "I know."

"But you know how great this is, right?" he beamed. "Like, you know how much of a," he paused and bit down on his lip to emphasized the  _F_  in, " _fucking_  big deal this is?" He put his arm around my shoulders and then announced to the skyscrapers above, "My friend, Rosie Young, has just been accepted into music's most notable philanthropic organization!" I laughed while he continued, "In other words, SHE IS GOING TO CHANGE LIVES THROUGH THE POWER OF MUSIC!" Someone in the sea of rushing people screamed  _shut up!_ But it didn't wipe the smile from either of our faces.

The Young Musicians Group, as Finn so gracefully prefaced, was my greatest milestone in all of my twenty-two years of music-making life. I was proud of getting in because 1. the admittance process was  _really fucking hard,_ and rightfully so seeing as 2. this group includes some of the most successful names in music (past inductees include Bono, Kanye and Alanis Morisette), which really comes in handy as the sole purpose of this group is to 3. provide and inspire humanitarian efforts through music. It was like the altruistic and musical parts of me married and then birthed this glimmering newborn opportunity to  _change the world_  (okay, weird metaphor but you feel my excitement, right?).

"Hey," Cole remerged. "You know, I could hear you screaming about Young Musicians at the other end of the sidewalk. If Finn wasn't already set on architecture, I'd say he has a career in singing. Maybe screamo." He punched Finn's shoulder lightly and then turned back to me. "I looked up Young Musicians last night," Cole continued. "This year's class of inductees is pretty impressive, I mean, aside from that girl  _Rosie Young,"_ he exaggerated my name for laughs, "there are some big acts joining the group. Taylor Swift, One Direction, The Jonas Brothers."

As Cole listed off the names, I felt my stomach churn and the heat of the sun on my black hair. Up until now, the reality of joining the Young Musicians Group only sunk as deep as me receiving my letter of acceptance. But now after listening to them enthuse about how big of a " _fucking deal this is,"_ the reality sunk bone deep. I was both incredibly excited and exhaustedly terrified.

While they talked about all things Young Musicians, I tried to redirect my focus to walking and the glimmering buildings above. Eventually when I stopped thinking about my fellow inductees and the ratio of big name artists  _(Taylor fucking Swift)_ to smaller name artists  _(me),_ my heartbeat had slowed and the subject had changed.

"You're coming to Dog Serg tonight, right?" Cole asked, readjusting his leather satchel on his shoulder.

"Of course," Finn beamed. "I've heard it's the newest must-eat. They've got, like, the best spinach dip in all of Manhattan."

"So I've heard. We'll see you there, man. I'm gonna walk her to the studio now." And in that swift and awkward adieu, we turned the corner and walked alone without Finn.

"That was awkward," I said.

"What? Just saying bye."

"Ya kinda pushed him away."

He scoffed. "Come on, Finn and I are tight. I've known the kid since sophomore year - you know that," there was a pause. "Is there something going on between you two?"

"I  _knew_  you'd say that," I huffed, shaking my head.

"You can't deny it. Things have been a little different since China."  _Since China._  Since what? Since we kissed? I knew what he was alluding to.

"No, nothing's going on," I said, perhaps a little too stoically but better that than share that part of my life with him. As close as Cole and I were, I liked to keep the details of my private life private _._ Besides, that was all I had to say anyway. Because it was the truth. Finn and I were nothing other than good friends, if Cole could believe it. Neither Finn nor I brought up that night in Shanghai since it happened more than a month ago. The only proof that we kissed was our shared memory of it. And according to Dallas, the apparent existence of our "suppressed romanticism" was in the way that we did things, like look at each other "for a little too long." Big sigh.

The kiss was so tame.  _So tame._  Not even worth Cole's inquiry. It was at night. We were in the middle of a crowded street market. Dallas, Nollee, Dayna, Dylan, Cole, Finn, me bar hopping around Shanghai like the curious college students we are. Finn and I got separated from the group and tried calling them on our cheap temp phones but no one picked up.

I remember clutching onto Finn in the chaotic street, our sweaty skin sticking together in a sort of gross tackiness, but neither of us minded. A loud motorbike zipped past me and I yelped. In what was a moment of hysterical laughter, he impulsively took me by my waist and kissed me. It lasted about five seconds, and since then, we'd done nothing more than hold hands under the table in Beijing that one time. We were nothing. So Cole needed to stop asking.

By the time we got to The XX Recording Studios, Cole had dropped the topic and moved on to something slightly less vapid:  _The fifth dimension and Interstellar's cosmological effect on our puny human brains now that theories of the fifth dimension and trans-galactic journeys have been introduced to us via a mass communications medium_  (his words, not mine). I let him drone on while I calibrated whether or not to let him know I didn't appreciate him prying in on my private details. Ultimately, I dropped it and bid him adieu at the door with, "See you at Serg."

As Cole headed off for Linguistics, I pushed through the doors of The XX and was quickly greeted by the front desk. Leila, a red-haired pixie with thick brimmed eyeglasses and a love for cat sweaters, jumped at the sight of me. "There you are!" she exclaimed, getting up from behind the desk.

"What - am I late?" I pulled out my phone to check the time, but then she grabbed my arm and leaned in close to my face as she led me to the elevator. "Ray has been asking about you. We have a  _very_  special guest using the studio today."

"Oh, trick," I said back.

She continued, "I can't say who, because, you know,  _confidentiality_. But he just arrived and Ray's getting him situated right now. She wants to see you ASAP, so you better RUN!" By now, she had dropped me off into the elevator car, pre-pressed the third floor button for me and was standing in the empty foyer with her hands on her hips, proud of the good work she had done. I nodded back as the doors closed between us, thinking about how I can't  _run_  up an elevator and that perhaps the stairs would've been a more efficient choice.

Nonetheless, I made it there in sixty seconds, flat. The first sound I heard when I stepped onto the third floor was an unfamiliar laugh. A kind of raspy but high-pitched and overjoyed squeal of a laugh. I followed it and found two silhouettes standing in the doorway of Studio C down the hallway.

"How did that even happen?" Ray asked the other silhouette.

A deep voice with an English accent responded, "Honestly, I haven't a clue. But now, I can say that a member of the band was held up in customs for trying to smuggle in a live bird."

She laughed, "That's unheard of! But we're glad to have you here, regardless."

"Thank you for having me. Very glad to be here."

"Rosie!" Ray said, turning her eyes on me. My supervisor, a peppy, short (though it wasn't like I had that many more inches on her) brunette with forever berry-stained lips, smiled largely and grabbed my arm to present me to the unfamiliar figure in the doorway. "Here she is, my star intern."  _Flattery_ , I told myself,  _will get you everywhere._

And then I noticed him. The other silhouette, who was blindly just a silhouette before, stepped into the light and I caught my breath. Broad-shouldered and long, but leanly muscular – a man, twenty-something years of age. Brown, shoulder-length, shaggy hair that could only be properly described as  _rockstar-esque_. Tight black jeans. Regular white tee. Decked in arm tattoos. Oh, and I guess it would be worthwhile to mention that he's hot. Like  _painstakingly hot._ He had these green eyes that looked me down and made it hard to match the intensity of his gaze, but I stared back anyway. He uncrossed his arms and reached out a hand. "Hi, I'm Harry," his voice was smooth like butter.

"Rosie," I said back.

"Ray told me a lot about you," he said with a smirk.

"Oh, shit," I actually said aloud.

Somehow, he thought this was funny and laughed. "She mentioned your potty mouth, too, but not before your accomplishments. NYU, huh? Soon to graduate Magna Cum Laude?" he raised an eyebrow and I swore I felt my insides melting.

"Yeah, it's a side gig," I joked.

"Rosie is going to help get you situated in the studio. She'll also be here for any assistance you might need," Ray explained as he listened and stared at me, again. She explained to him that the rest of the staff had a big meeting to tend to while I tried my hardest to stare back at him, because, I guess, I figured that that was the best way to combat his piercing, dagger eyes. A stare for a stare. But then two seconds in, I realized that I hadn't brushed my hair, wasn't wearing my good bra and had on a thrifted tee with a red  _Oui!_  emblazoned on the front that didn't really make much sense. The situation on the forefront was looking bleak. All troops retreat. I looked away.

"Great," he said to Ray and then turned to me. "The other writers aren't coming into town until tomorrow so it's just going to be me and you tonight – if you can handle it," he said coyly and in such a way that made me question if he was flirting with me. Before I could respond, he turned back to Ray. "I feel bad for taking your best intern and your biggest booth though. Surely, I wouldn't need all that space."

"Don't worry about it," she said. "We're not expecting any other artists tonight."

"Plus," I joined in, "Studio C is the best booth. Apart from its size, it's the only one with a mini fridge."

"Oh, well then, sold," he said and then smiled the nicest, most bone-rattling smile God could have ever created.  _God, I wanted to die_.

But before I could lay down and melt from the warmth that was his dimpling smile, Ray pulled me aside to go over the confidentiality agreement (which, as she reminded, ordered me to _not tell anyone that he's here and what he's working on_ ), the studio lockup procedure ( _keys are down at the front desk. Security system code is 4292_ ), and the fact that it was literally just going to be me and Harry tonight ( _big corporate meeting. Stay until he's finished_ ). Then, much like how a mother bear abandons her cub in the hopes that it will survive this daunting world on its own, she bid adieu and it was just me, Harry and the mini fridge.

* * *

Harry was crazy. Like bat-shit,  _who the fuck is this guy_  kind of crazy. We talked like two regular people in the beginning (he just came back from Japan and was really excited about these guava fruit gummies – he bought a Costco-sized box of them, for the record), but the moment he told me he was going to "dive right into this bloody song," he pulled out two battery-powered candles, a bottle of kombucha, three bananas and six protein bars. I didn't say anything, but he noticed my apparent stare and didn't hesitate to disclaim himself. "It's my zen set up. It's how I write," he said with a grin. He waited for me to say something back, but I was too busy staring at his six omega-3 bars. "Do you have a set up?"

"Yeah," I said. "I turn off my phone and close my eyes sometimes."

He nodded, "Simple. I like it."

"Yeah, um," I paused. I wasn't sure of how to continue this conversation because 1.  _what_  and 2. he was hot as fuck. After finally peeling my eyes away, I made my way to the sound board and said, "Let me boot this up for you." As I bent over to get it started, I felt my spine stiffen. Harry had only two eyeballs last time I checked, but being alone with him in the studio felt a lot like having an auditorium of hot Harry's staring back at me. By impulse, I looked down to check if I was wearing my good jeans (and thank God I was).

"Thank you," he said. His syllables were slow and warm.

I turned around and leaned against the desk. "This studio's highly soundproofed so you can blast whatever as loudly as you want. And um, help yourself to the fridge. I can get you more bananas from the kitchen if you need them."

He laughed again, though I didn't really mean for it to be funny. "Thanks, but hopefully, this stash will hold me over."

"If the six protein bars don't, I think you'll need to look into what vitamin deficiencies you may be having."  _That_  I meant to be funny. He laughed.

"Where will you be?" he asked, taking a seat on the slouchy leather couch.

"Down the hall. Studio A."

"What will you be doing?" he probed.

I shrugged. "I don't know. Probably just messing around. Probably writing."

"Is that what you do? You're a songwriter?"

"More or less." I wondered if he was just procrastinating by talking to me, or maybe he's a people person, or maybe my good jeans were just  _that good._ "What about you?" I asked.

"You know One Direction?"

I shrugged, "Yeah, sort of. I mean, I definitely know the name, I just don't really keep up with them. But my roommate's a huge fan. What's that one song –  _Why Don't We Go There?_  I like that one."

A huge grin spread across his face. "Good, because I wrote that one."

My throat closed up. "You write for them?"

He shrugged, "More or less."

"Well,  _shit_ ," I huffed. "To what do I owe the pleasure of being in the presence of such melodic genius?"

He laughed and then after I had calmed down, he admitted, "Ray didn't hold back much information about you."

Fearing the worst, I took a seat in the desk chair. "I'm very interested in what she had to say."

He didn't say anything for what felt like hours, but in reality, were actually seconds. He shuffled, scooted to the edge of the couch and leaned in, wringing out his hands. He licked his lips and then finally uttered these three words, " _Call Me Maybe_."

"Oh my God."

"So it's true!" he exclaimed. "That was you?!"

"Yes," I was covering my face. "Oh my God."

"Oh my God, you did not," he exhaled.

"I was sixteen when I wrote that, so please excuse the juvenility–"

He interjected, "That song was like," he paused, looking at the ceiling and dimpling, "number one for  _weeks_. Excuse me, but to what do  _I_  owe the pleasure?"

I looked up from my hands. There was something about the intersection of his accent and the genuine compliment that made my insides flutter. And then he sang the first couple lines,  _I threw a wish in the well, don't ask me I'll never tell_ , the words sounding new and better from his mouth, and for a moment even I was able to excuse the juvenility of the song that I'd spent years embarrassed of.

"No wonder you're the star intern," he said then turned to me, "When do you leave?"

"When you're done," I answered.

"Mm, that sounds fake," he said.

I tittered. "Ray's orders –"

"Rules are meant to be broken."

"But orders, especially if they pertain to a paid job, are meant to be followed."

"Dinner plans?" he asked. I thought about Cole and the group's plans to try out that new restaurant, but then that thought quickly shifted into one of me disappointing Ray and no longer being the star intern and of course, the regret of not administering the creation of wonderful music for the sake of attending one of the seemingly infinite number of Cole-led new restaurant explorations.

"I can skip it, " I said.

"No," he shook his head and reached for a banana. I could see his muscles rippling under his shirt.

"For the sake of music," I said. "Who knows, you may end up writing the next  _Why Don't We Go There_ , and I'd like to be there for it."

He looked at me and I watched a small grin slowly grow across his face. "Okay," he said, his voice low and rough. "How about this: you and I stay here for a couple hours. You help me with my song and lend me some of that  _Call Me Maybe_  magic, and then we leave in time for dinner. I'll even send Ray a ravishing review of you."

"You sure?"

He looked at my shirt and then my face.  _"Oui."_

* * *

We were hurdling down on the melody of one verse – a chorus revision and a middle 8 later. One banana down, and 2.3 protein bars digested (Harry let me try one. I could only chew half of the bar because macadamia nut omega-3 tastes like shit).

"Hold on," he said. He had been flipping through several pages of his journal for a while now, determined to show me whatever he was hunting for. "I wrote this on the plane back from Japan. I think we were hovering somewhere over the Pacific, and I felt really," he paused, searching for the word. "Reflective. And drunk."

He handed me his journal - a worn, leather bound lump. In it, sharing a page with random doodles of raining clouds and clocks, sat this stanza:

 _I do my best to find some kind of glow  
_ _I'm giving it some heart and soul_  
To the road that we've been on now  
The kaleidoscope claims another.*

"I," he laughed at himself, "I don't normally write drunk."

"No, this is good," I said, reading the lines over again. "I like the kaleidoscope line. You're very vivid without being superfluous."

"Thank you," he smiled and looked away. In this moment, he looked like a kid, accepting a compliment for the first time. I wondered how often he shows people this journal.

"What's it about?" I asked. "If you don't mind me asking."

He didn't say anything and that's when I handed the journal back to him and felt the embarrassment of prying into a stranger's private details.

But then somehow, he confided in me, "It's about being curious." He took the book from my offering hand but then laid it back down on the desk. "I've felt really stagnant these past few years. I feel like I don't have control or maybe that I have too much control and that I need to  _lose_  control. I can't tell. But there's this quote that's been stuck with me for a while. François Rabelais said it right before he died."

And then we said these words together, "I go to seek a great perhaps."

 

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1\. What do  _the Great Perhaps_  mean to you?

2\. Rosie and Cole's friendship is based on their shared interest in debate. Is this a solid foundation for a friendship? What are the consequences of being friends with someone who loves to argue for argument's sake?

3\. Rosie couldn't be more disinterested in the "celebrity spotting" on campus. Why do you think she reacts in this way? Could Cole and his fame have anything to do with that?

4\. What is your input in the class discussion about idolism? Is fame invasive?

5\. Discuss Harry;s lyrics:  _I do my best to find some kind of glow. I'm giving it some heart and soul. To the road that we've been on now. The kaleidoscope claims another._ Harry says, "It's about being curious." Specifically, what about these lyrics are related to being curious? What does he mean by  _the kaleidoscope claims another_?

 

*Lyrics from "Life in Color" by OneRepublic


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